


Phantasia

by updatepls



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F, Rachel being her usual strange self
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-17 18:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2318522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/updatepls/pseuds/updatepls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She lowers her eyes contemptuously to Sarah's boots where her laces touch the floor, the whole of Sarah like an oil spill amidst the ice-white lake of Rachel's apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably best to view this entire thing as a continued exploration of Rachel's character leading on from my tags on this tumblr post (updatepls.tumblr.com/post/86234831076/) - but it is in no way essential to have read them first or anything! 
> 
> Short first chapter here, Propunk from chapter two.

Rachel Duncan tilts her head to one side, allowing her hair to hang a few inches from her face like a curtain. She leans forward slightly, further into the flow of water, and watches as it makes the locks grow fat before streaming from the ends and filtering away down the length of her body.

Rachel is nineteen, and this is what she does in the shower; has been doing in the shower for as long as she can remember.

Slowly, she moves back again, straightening herself and allowing her now drenched hair to cling to her jaw and neck—thick and hot and heavy with water.

Rachel thinks it feels positively divine.

On some level she's aware of what she's trying to achieve, but she'd deny it if you asked her.

Feeling the moisture in her hair starting to lose it's warmth, Rachel re-immerses her scalp, coming away again only to repeat the process. The ends of short blonde waves stick to the skin of her jawline, the nape of her neck, the sensitive spots behind her ears, and she hums; a low sound produced somewhere deep in her throat.

Rachel thinks it feels like a hundred open-mouthed kisses all at once.

Only she's in control. She chooses when and where they're planted, she alone chooses how she's kissed; how wet, how hot, how—

Rachel feels a rogue throb of need make itself known between her legs. It makes her squirm, a single shiver breaking out over her skin. She pushes a short breath through her nose and rolls her neck, eyes unwittingly closed. And with one hand pressed against cool tile in support, breath coming hard, it dawns on Rachel all at once what it is she actually wants—what it is she's seeking.

It feels irrevocable. Irreversible. Too big to be swallowed back down. Nevertheless, Rachel tries to choke it back as best she can, pushing the knowledge from the front of her mind where it does not sit comfortably, and into a recess where it no longer makes her moral compass spin as if surrounded by magnets.

Predictably, demanding to be acknowledged, it bounces back.

Rachel makes the water come out first cooler, and then ice cold. She stands under it fully, mouth wide, unable to breathe hardly at all from the shock of it. 

The exorcism fails.

Rachel is unhelpfully reminded of the first time she had kissed a girl, how it'd thrilled her; of how she had been forced to excuse herself to promptly vomit in the ladies' room, consumed with dread at her sudden understanding.

Her hand wanders back to the temperature gauge, turning it to make the jets deliciously warm against her freshly cold skin. A dull feeling of resignation seats itself in Rachel's belly; wanting to kiss girls never went away, chances are this wouldn't either.

Rachel saturates her hair until it will hold no more water.

She kisses herself again.


	2. Chapter 2

Rachel Duncan is twenty-eight and she stands in front of her bathroom mirror, almost _languorously_ applying a fresh coat of red lipstick. Absently running a hand down the edge of the glass, Rachel admires her own reflection, the feverish sensation in her chest no longer unsettling. Rachel knows what she wants, and she allows the notion to float through her mind freely; does not attempt to choke it back down. In fact, Rachel finds herself to be lightly amused as opposed to distressed this time. 

Pushing the lipstick cap back on, she replaces each article of cosmetic to its rightful drawer or cupboard.

Her finished work is exquisite. Pristine. Practiced. Artful. Crisp with quality and skill—like everything Rachel's ever done, been, worn, really.

_Positively divine._

She takes a slow breath, eyes never leaving her form. 

Leaning in closer to inspect her make-up, Rachel ensures her lips are coated perfectly.

She does not blot.

 

***

 

Sarah Manning stands in scruffy black jeans with holes at the knees (holes everywhere really), her hair equally unkempt. And, emerging from the bathroom, Rachel lowers her eyes contemptuously to Sarah's boots where her laces touch the floor, the whole of Sarah like an oil spill amidst the ice-white lake of Rachel's apartment.

"Fuck _me_ is this place straight out of Cold Bitch Digest," had been Sarah's first words when they'd entered earlier that evening.

(Getting Sarah to come willingly hadn't been the challenge; it wasn't Rachel's ability but rather her _patience_ that had been tested.

Through years of proven efficacy, Rachel has become accustomed to a simple _threat-and-result_ dynamic when it comes to getting what she wants - no desire whatsoever to be liked. (She is feared, which is practically the same thing, isn't it?) But for this, by nature, it is paramount. Being liked, that is. And it is almost admirable how tirelessly Rachel had worked at it; worked at Sarah's innermost yearning for a true blood tie, worked at Sarah's need to just trust  _someone._

At the beginning their interactions had consisted merely of Sarah shouting down the phone at Rachel for fifteen seconds, _end of interaction._ But slowly shouting had turned to mocking; mocking to ambivalence; ambivalence to teasing rooted in affection for her clone sister, her British counterpart, her pristine equal and opposite.

Thus, painstakingly, Rachel had honed a pure pearl of trust inside Sarah, until it was smooth and rich and flawless.

Until it was fit for purpose.)

Rachel waves her hand vaguely in front of Sarah's form. "Off," she commands evenly, not even looking; eyes trained instead on the wine glass she brings to her painted mouth.

"Bit eager, aren't we?" Sarah remarks cockily, a smirk breaking out across her lips. Rachel says nothing.

There is uncertainty in Sarah's eyes but she obliges, removing garment after garment in the pin-drop silence of Rachel's top-floor flat. She smiles lopsidedly but it does not reach her eyes, "Well this is awkward..."

Rachel, however, knows no such emotion.

Sarah stands naked, a stark contrast to the other woman's fully clothed body—trousers, heels, shirt, the lot.

Rachel eyes her somewhat causally, wine glass in hand, an expression of apparent disinterest on her face accompanied by a faint _something-else_ Sarah cannot place.

"Right," Rachel says, perhaps too loudly, her voice puncturing the air for the first time in minutes. She turns her attention to the nearby table where a neatly folded stack of clothing lies, and plucks a blonde hairband from where it rests on top. Rachel forgoes implementing the clothes entirely. _Early days,_ she reasons with herself.

Sarah's eyes have never left her, and now Rachel meets them with a measure of heat and darkness, indiscernible in origin. Unhurriedly, she moves around Sarah, heels clicking seductively on the hard floor. And both Sarah and Rachel are successfully further seduced by it.

Sarah does not like Rachel behind her, it makes her feel vulnerable, and a previous distrust flares up in her gut. However, she remains perfectly still.

Bringing silver-tipped fingers to Sarah's mane of hair, Rachel gathers it in deft hands, tying the locks tightly behind Sarah's head; she does not want to see brunette waves around her shoulders when they kiss.

"Ow, bloody hell, Rachel! What are you even doing?" Sarah jerks her head away from Rachel's touch, making a show of being hurt by her rather unceremonious ministrations.

 _It will not do,_ Rachel thinks. But again, she is silent.

Instead, Rachel brushes a surprisingly warm hand over Sarah's back, causing a shiver to ripple across her skin. Leaning in, Rachel places a full kiss, painfully slow and loaded with promise, against Sarah's newly exposed neck. The ends of short blonde locks tickle Sarah's shoulder, and another vibration runs through her.

Rachel raises an eyebrow a hair's width in understanding behind the shield of Sarah's body.

_Better._

Purposefully, she moves to stand directly in front of Sarah, who is looking at her with anticipation - despite it being apparent that she is completely unable to predict Rachel's next move, and she knows it. Before her, Rachel is motionless, studying Sarah like a predator might after wounding it's prey, but choosing not to kill it just _yet._

Sarah nervously attempts at filling the silence, but is cut off.

"Shut up," Rachel says, not entirely unkindly, and Sarah frowns defensively at the woman in front of her, lips parted.

"Close your mouth."

She waits a beat before begrudgingly obeying Rachel, and settles for pursing her lips in a display of indignation. In response, Rachel offers one of her enigmatic smiles; small and tight and thoroughly uninterpretable.

Rachel steps out of her heels deliberately, bringing her eyes and mouth perfectly level with Sarah's. And, without warning, she holds Sarah steady with a hand to either shoulder, and kisses her firmly on the mouth, lips closed. There's little ardour in it but it serves it's purpose remarkably well. Rachel repeats the action twice more until she's satisfied, the ritual almost comical.

Sarah's mouth is a vision to her: blood red with lipstick, slightly open, and truly _identical_ to her own.

Rachel can hardly contain herself at the sight and she breathes heavily, silver-white nails digging into the back of Sarah's shoulders where she still holds her, eyes black like velvet. Frankly, Sarah is as unsettled by it all as she is turned on.

And then, Rachel is all over her; mouth hot against her own, arms flung possessively around her neck in a romance-less fashion. They are a good match though, and quickly Sarah kisses back with just as much ferocity.

Rachel pushes her tongue between painted lips and it is everything she ever has wanted since she was nineteen years old.

Tugging at the hem of Rachel's shirt, Sarah is taken aback when she isn't swatted away. She expects Rachel to back up and do it herself, preferring to be in control—but instead she just raises her arms and permits Sarah to pull the sheer garment roughly over her head. Her eyes remain closed throughout and as soon as the material hits the floor her mouth is back at Sarah's, extraordinarily hungry.

Rachel walks Sarah back towards the couch, forceful; pushing her down by the shoulders and straddling her hips, causing Sarah to draw in her breath at the pressure. Beneath her, Sarah is a mess, and she watches Rachel eagerly as she pushes her hair behind her ears before ducking to take one of Sarah's nipples in her mouth.

With unusual grace, Sarah reaches a hand behind her own head and frees her hair in one fluid motion, letting it flow around her shoulders in tangles and waves once again.

To her confusion, Rachel recoils, livid.

 _"No!"_ she practically spits, clipped accent apparently unaffected by her sudden anger. Through gritted teeth, she adds, _"Put it up."_

Sarah ties her hair back again obediently—too aroused to question Rachel's tone—but her work is sloppy and rushed, tendrils escaping the loose ponytail within minutes, and before Rachel knows it there's a soft brown halo surrounding Sarah's head where it rests against the sofa cushion. It doesn't help that most of the lipstick on Sarah's mouth has either been smudged or rubbed off completely.

Rachel forces a sharp breath through her nose, frustration barely contained. _Fucking Sarah like this is not enough._

With tight lips she looks down at the woman's flushed face, the mirror image of her own.

_But for now, it will do._

Rachel swills the words around in her brain, compromise a foreign notion there.

_For now._

With little warning, Rachel pushes two fingers inside Sarah.


	3. Chapter 3

Sarah reaches idly for the handle of Rachel's fridge, presumably to get another beer, but before she can, Rachel has grabbed her firmly by the elbow. Sarah quickly spins to face her, antagonistic and questioning as is her way—but her scowl immediately melts into a smirk when she understands that Rachel is about to kiss her. 

This evening, Rachel knows, she cannot be cold—cannot be her usual aloof—if she wants Sarah to acquiesce. Or, as Sarah would probably prefer to believe, _indulge_ her. 

Rachel moves back a mere inch from Sarah's lips, "I'll do it," she murmurs, and Sarah can feel the warmth of the other woman's breath on her mouth. Rachel reaches behind Sarah blindly, what would be _precariously_ if it were anyone else, and opens the refrigerator herself. Locking eyes with Sarah, she brings the desired bottle into the space between their bodies, daring Sarah to take it from her. Sarah goes to, only to grasp thin air as Rachel moves it from her reach, expression unchanging. 

"Oi," Sarah frowns incredulously at Rachel—unexpectedly juvenile—and stares challengingly into the pair of hazel eyes opposite her own; identical in both colour and expression. They stay like that for an elongated moment—charged with the silent power play being conducted between them—both women perfectly still and not a foot apart.

Suddenly, Rachel let's out a sort of _huff_ of a laugh and kisses Sarah chastely on the lips, pushing the cold bottle against Sarah's stomach and letting go completely, forcing her to grab onto it near instantly if she is to prevent it from falling to the floor and smashing. Sarah just about manages it as Rachel walks away in her stilettos. 

Rachel thinks it does nicely. 

 

***

 

Later, they occupy Rachel's cream sofa: Sarah completely naked, save the enormous bowl of Doritos resting between her crossed legs. She watches the equally enormous television with childlike absorption, chewing with her mouth open. 

It irks Rachel, who sits a little less nakedly in her underwear (they didn't get that far—deliberately of Rachel) next to Sarah on the sofa, but she remains silent. She has no idea what Sarah has chosen for them to watch; does not care; is too fraught with anticipation. 

Rachel's left arm rests on the back of the sofa, from where her fingertips easily reach Sarah's right shoulder, and in an attempt at apparently absent affection, she trails them back and forth there. She clenches her jaw with the effort of not simply _demanding_ what she wants (as is _her_ way), instead choosing the delicate manipulation she has managed to sustain thus far. 

Slower still, she runs her hand down the length of Sarah's arm until she is able to bring the other woman's hand to rest in her own lap. Sarah turns to her, a little taken aback but with a smile in her eyes. Almost inaudibly she emits a kitten-soft, "Hey", her smile reaching her mouth now. Rachel valiantly tries to mirror the innocence in Sarah's expression, achieving a tight smirk that Sarah puts down to something along the lines of Rachel being out of her depth, but _trying_ nonetheless. 

She guesses incorrectly. 

With Sarah's attention safely back on the TV, Rachel reaches to the small table beside her end of the sofa. There, a pot of Rachel's own silver nail varnish sits, calculatedly placed hours before Sarah had even arrived at the apartment. Holding it tightly between her thighs, Rachel unscrews the cap with her right hand. She gently wipes the excess polish off the brush using the bottle's rim, and brings it to where Sarah's right hand still rests in Rachel's left. Expertly, she paints Sarah's most readily accessible fingernail: her thumbnail. Sarah is almost comically unaware as Rachel sits next to her in concentration, and a little in anxiety, taking her time— _but not too much time_ —to transform Sarah's fingertips into ones that could pass for her very own. 

It works even better than she had planned. She finishes them all without so much as a glance from Sarah, and not for a further five minutes thereafter either. 

Somebody must have said something particularly hilarious in the movie Sarah is enraptured by, because suddenly she turns to Rachel with a stupid grin on her face, all canines. Before Rachel can respond appropriately, a glint of silver catches Sarah's eye and it draws her attention to where their hands sit, entangled and motionless on Rachel's bare thigh. 

Predictably: "Oh, my God, _Rachel!"_  

Snatching her hand away she holds it splayed out at arm's length in front of her, fingernails gleaming; as silver as one of Rachel's teaspoons. 

"What have you done to me!" 

Rachel laughs, taking the meaning out of her strange act; turning it into a prank of sorts (Rachel has never pulled such a thing in her life, current situation being no exception). As intended, it quells the anger in Sarah, transforming it into laughter of her own. 

Rachel puts a warm hand—complete with silver-white nails of her own—on Sarah's naked leg and, still chuckling, kisses her shoulder. 

"What? You don't like it?" 

Sarah grins, amazed, "You're so fucking sneaky!" she exclaims, the last word muffled by Rachel's mouth as she kisses her on the lips this time. Rachel's kneeling on the sofa beside her now, raising herself up so they can kiss properly. 

"Let me do the other one." 

It comes out offhand but Rachel's heart is thumping near painfully against her breastbone. The very real possibility that Sarah may become irrational if pressed too hard—concluding in Rachel losing this delicate moment altogether—has consumed her mind since they had first sat down together. 

"Piss off!" Sarah laughs incredulously. "Not happening. Not in a million years." 

Rachel's mouth is on hers again, hands either side of her face. She pushes one leg between Sarah's, effectively shoving off the bowl that had been resting there and allowing the contents to spill across her living room floor. Sarah's never so much as seen Rachel throw a wet towel on the bed. 

"Please," Rachel drawls against her neck. 

Sarah gasps dramatically, causing Rachel to pull back and look at her. 

And then, mock-horror, "Did Rachel _Duncan_ just say... _please?!"_  

"I did," Rachel replies, evenly as ever.

"I was thinking about saying yes but now I really don't trust you!" 

The playful atmosphere extends just a fleeting second further. And then Rachel sees her window. 

She doesn't care for the comment, doesn't feel rejected or slapped in the face; like everything they've built has been swept out from underneath her. But her face would tell you otherwise, because a lesser clone _might_. 

Rachel stares at Sarah for a moment, frozen; apparently wounded, before extricating herself from the other woman's lap and briskly walking away. 

"Rachel!... _Rachel!"_  

Pause.

"I didn't mean it!" 

Nothing.

"Fuck," Sarah mutters under her breath; throws a pillow at the television screen and misses. 

"Uggghhhh," begrudgingly Sarah realises the fastest way she can make it okay again. And she doesn't like it.  

 

 ***

 

Sarah snakes her arms around the smooth skin of Rachel's waist only for Rachel to close her eyes and huff, thinking it realistic to keep up the fuss just a little longer. She's standing at the kitchen sink, Sarah behind her, pressing warm hands against Rachel's bare stomach and gentle kisses to her neck. 

"Rachel, I didn't mean it," Sarah says quietly against her skin. 

Rachel opens her eyes and looks down to where Sarah's palms are flat against her abdomen. She does not expect what she finds and she lets out a strange moan, practically aggressive. Rachel feels like there's fire in her throat, or she's been pushed into a swimming pool; like the very oxygen surrounding her is no longer compatible with her lungs. 

She gives away impressively little. 

"It doesn't matter," she manages, breathing hard, and Rachel experiences sincerity for quite possibly the first time in her life. 

Sarah has painted the remaining digits herself; every nail as silver as Rachel's own, hands perfect copies of those supporting the woman in front of her as she leans heavily on the counter.  _And she's caressing Rachel's skin with them._ Drawing light patterns over her stomach and making the muscles there jump and clench.

Rachel watches overwhelmed, open-mouthed with arousal.

Sarah chuckles at Rachel's sudden responsiveness, but Rachel does not hear. Instead she focuses on not coming on the spot. 

It is a sight better than she had ever imagined, and she had imagined it a hundred times over; the thrill of the _idea_ enough to make Rachel whimper when she's on her own.

But here— _this_ —outside the confines of fantasy... this is exaltation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THERE'S NOTHING HOLY ABOUT IT AHA IGNORE ME
> 
> This just gets weirder and weirder, I know, I can't help it. Blame the show - canon Rachel would totally sleep with a clone for narcissistic purposes IM CERTAIN OF IT.
> 
> Also, this is my first ever piece of fanfic so any and all comments are very welcome!


	4. Chapter 4

To be seen by another is to be solidified, verified, _realised_. This, Rachel Duncan knows. 

The eyes of her subordinates dart from her gaze, and she knows that she is fearsome. Aldous' eyes beg silently for a simpler way—a kinder method—and Rachel knows without doubt that she is a force to be reckoned with. The eyes of the women she fucks devour her without a single touch, and she knows she has been the downfall of many before them. The eyes of strangers stare back into hers and Rachel knows that she is real. Everything about her commands to know it; her heels say it, her lipstick shows it, the cut of her hair warrants it, the danger in her presence _necessitates_ it. 

Rachel Duncan is real, _and you will know it so that I can know it too._

 _Sarah_ they do not see though, do not know how their legs entangle, how Sarah's hand encompasses Rachel's throat, or how Rachel throws Sarah's skull against the wall, parts her lips with already tainted fingers and lets their tongues slide hotly over one another. 

They do not see that Rachel has herself, that herself has Rachel.

Sarah had made it tangible with her physicality, had left burning prints on Rachel's stomach the first time she had touched her with silver-tipped fingers. But now sometimes Rachel isn't sure if it's her double's hand or her own that is running down the length of her arm, tugging at her hair, pushing her knees apart. She needs to know. She needs them to know. Needs them to _see._ Needs it to be real again.

Losing after having is harder than never having at all, and Rachel has been spoilt rotten; in Rachel's presence so often, Sarah's words are even beginning to come out more polished, her sentences strung up correctly, and from time to time it is Rachel's own voice that she hears when Sarah breathes, "lie down", "sit up", "open your legs", "fuck me", in her ear. 

She wants to hear it every time.


	5. Chapter 5

One weekend, otherwise unremarkable but for the late-October fog, Rachel takes Sarah to London.

 _Back to London,_ Rachel thinks idly, sipping her tea. A place where Sarah can let her guard down, and where any collateral damage won't be quite so damaging.

Of course she could pick anywhere, could pick New York or Ottawa, could pick a town ten miles down the road for all it matters—just as long as it isn't Toronto. But why not pick London? She can afford it, she is permitted to take time away from Dyad whenever she pleases, and—she reasons—it might just evoke a certain something in Sarah; something open, something softer. Something more _malleable_.

 

***

 

"Wait, just lemme get this straight. You wanna to go to _England..._ for the _weekend."_

Rachel looks to the right and then back to Sarah, who is leaning sloppily over her kitchen island, bourbon in hand. "Yes," she answers simply.

Sarah scoffs and throws back the last of her liquor, slamming the glass down on the marbled counter jarringly, "Well, you're paying."

"Obviously."

They both know Sarah could never afford it on her own.

"Oh, piss off." Sarah pours herself another drink but before she can bring it to her mouth—

"Do you enjoy being drunk when you fly, Sarah?" Rachel asks condescendingly, walking around the other woman and retrieving her phone from where it rests on the opposite counter.

"What, we're going _tonight?"_ Sarah should have expected as much from Rachel, who just continues looking at her Blackberry like Sarah had never spoken.

"And yeah... I do," Sarah adds defiantly—childishly—knocking back the fresh measure of alcohol in her tumbler. (Well, Rachel's tumbler; it's fancy and it's crystal and, despite her drug of choice, doesn't altogether suit Sarah.) She doesn't know whether she enjoys flying intoxicated or not; she's barely ever flown—but of course Rachel already knew that.

"Anyway, what is it to you?"

Unsurprisingly, Rachel does not gratify her with an answer; truthfully only interested in Sarah when she is able to bring Rachel closer to that which she cannot manifest through sheer desire alone.

Sarah waits a moment before speaking again.

"You must like me quite a bit, you know... Running away with me to have _lunch_ in Kensington and all," Sarah muses, the last bit embellished with a gloriously accurate impression of Rachel's accent. It's teasing—flirty—but there's a hint of vulnerability in her eyes and she turns back to face the counter where Rachel cannot see them. But Rachel has already seen.

To Sarah's absolute shock, Rachel slaps her hard across the ass, eliciting a sharp yelp. There's a pleasantly surprised smirk on Sarah's lips as she twists to face Rachel, but it soon dissipates. Rachel's expression is one of danger and dominance, knowing then that not only does Sarah trust her, but has become clumsy with her emotions; she _wants_ Rachel to like her 'quite a bit', maybe even wants Rachel to _love_ her.

A cool, smug smile pulls at the corners of Rachel's mouth, "We're not _going_ to Kensington."


	6. Chapter 6

The way Sarah is flying round the room—opening and closing the trouser press, repeatedly belly flopping on the bed, and spinning around so fast in the cream leather desk chair that Rachel thinks she herself may need to lie down—one would think that Sarah had never set foot in a hotel before. In fact, more every moment—as she observes the woman just as old as she become equal parts enthralled and offended by each novel amenity in the suite—Rachel suspects it may very well be the case.

She sits in an armchair situated beside the window, phlegmatic. And with one elbow propped up on the arm, jaw resting in her hand, she watches Sarah take a look inside the mini-fridge, immediately turning to Rachel open-mouthed from where she squats beside it. Rachel raises a solitary eyebrow and, despite her best efforts, cannot help the fraction of a smile that comes to her lips, "It is satisfactory, I see?"

"Satisfactory? Hell fuckin' yeah. Here, catch!" Sarah chucks a miniature vodka Rachel's way and impressively she _does_ catch it, despite the meagre warning.

Rachel scans the label disdainfully, "This is _not_ up to stan—"

"Oh, don't be such a kill joy! Fuck knows you could do with loosening up a bit. I say we get drunk on this shit and christen the bed, yeah?" Sarah meets Rachel's eyes over a bottle of her own, which she is now glugging back unceremoniously.

"Sarah, I refuse to drink this filth."

"'Fraid it's gonna wreck your precious clone organs or somethin'?" Sarah gibes at her.

Rachel remains impassive; continues to look on unimpressed. Sarah's opinions hold little gravity for her now; she knows full-well that she doesn't need to please Sarah anymore, doesn't need to fight for her approval. Rachel has little understanding of the concept but is, nevertheless, aware that humans do not have to _like_ in order to _want;_ like in order to _need;_ like in order to _love,_ even. Sarah already wants her, needs her. _Loves her?_

"'Kay, alright, you don't have to drink… whatever it is you think this stuff is, but we can like… still do the other stuff…" Sarah has begun sauntering towards Rachel deliberately, leaning back on her hips, a smirk spreading across her face as she inches closer. Rachel decides on simply letting her continue to humiliate herself, watching as Sarah nears the armchair and sinks to her knees, mischievous eyes locking with Rachel's ostensibly bored ones.

In Rachel's lack of protest, Sarah puts a hand on each of Rachel's legs and lets them travel over smooth tanned skin all the way from her heels to the hem of her skirt, breaching the boundary and slipping under easily. She moves slowly, never having dropped Rachel's graze, every second asking over and over for permission; Rachel knows she'd only have to give the slightest shake of her head and Sarah would withdraw completely. Sarah wants her, needs her. _Loves her?_ Yes.

Sarah reaches down to slip off her stilettos but Rachel keeps her feet planted on the floor reluctantly.

"What? You can't do normal once in a while?" Sarah says, quickly snapping back to her usual abrasion.

Thinking about it now, Rachel realises that they have, in fact, never _done normal._ This, _actually_ , is as normal as it's ever gotten. Sarah is still her clone though, still wears her face—and as such, Rachel is still interested. But naturally, she remains silent. All the while Sarah persists.

"Reckon you'd rather I just pounced on you whenever I fancied, to be honest."

"I would." 

 _She wouldn't._ But it would certainly make things more interesting; make Sarah more interesting, if Rachel is going to continue spending as much time around her as she does.

Visibly frustrated, "Oh, you _would?_  I thought _you_ were the only one who was allowed to do that."

"I thought _you_ didn't do what you were told."

_"Fine."_

"Fine."

"Take off your fucking shoes." Sarah is standing again and Rachel rises gracefully to meet her, holding Sarah's gaze and stepping out of her heels as instructed, bringing the pair perfectly eye to eye.

Sarah tugs at the lapel of Rachel's jacket, "Take this pretentious shit off."

Rachel unbuttons the garment with a deliberate lack of haste, draping it over the arm of the chair, bringing her eyes back to Sarah's for her next direction challengingly.

" _And_ the rest…"

Sarah's words are commanding but it doesn't suit her one bit; she doesn't have the strength for it, or the superiority. Her eyes aren't steady like Rachel's and they flit uncensored over Rachel's body as she undresses just a few feet in front of her.

It is a test, and Sarah is failing.

Wordlessly, Rachel had obliged, but the moment she is done she pushes Sarah abruptly back onto the bed, leans down, unzips her jeans, and begins to peel them off Sarah's hips.

"Hey!" Sarah stares at Rachel like she had just offered her a slice of cake and then eaten it right in front of her. The truth is, if Rachel had given it to Sarah she would certainly have eaten with her fingers, dropped crumbs all over Rachel's carpet, trodden them in irrevocably, and generally made a mess of things. Rachel can't afford that. But it doesn't mean toying with the idea doesn't excite her; doesn't mean she won't let Sarah believe it is possible, if only for a moment.

Rachel stands stock-still over her, eyebrow raised rhetorically, staring Sarah down with a force that is almost palatable. They push each other around physically for the fun of it, but it is redundant; at this point Rachel can push Sarah any which way she likes with just a look.

Sarah sighs sharply through her nose and her eyes dart off to the left for a second as if to say, _Fuck it,_ before she grabs Rachel by the only thing she is still wearing—her necklace—and pulls her down on top of her.

 

***

 

It had been just three-thirty when they'd tumbled onto the bed, but now five 'o' clock, the light is beginning to fade, and neither of them having bothered to get up and turn the _electric_ one on, long shadows stretch across the suite as the sun lowers in the sky.

Sarah had drifted off approximately half an hour ago, exhausted from the flight, her heavy drinking therein, and the physical demands of the kind of sex that is typical of Rachel's appetite. Lying next to her, tracing the Artex patterns on the ceiling with her eyes, Rachel considers the numerous ways in which her plans for tomorrow could go calamitously wrong.

In her sleep Sarah rolls onto her side, her arm coming to rest across Rachel's stomach unintentionally.

Rachel freezes.

Sure, she has let Sarah touch her outside of an erotic context before—but not like _this._ Not naked, not vulnerable. Not in a bed made for two. Not while one of them _slept_. She tries to extricate herself but her movement causes Sarah to stir, and she burrows closer to Rachel, who sighs in frustration.

Once again her reaction causes her only further disadvantage. The noise draws Sarah a little closer to the surface and she whispers, "Hi...", lifting her head and pressing her face into the warmth of Rachel's shoulder. 

Rachel sighs again.

"Hello, Sarah," her voice is grating and she purses her lips against her irritation, "Now, if you don't _mind_ , I am going to take a shower."

Rachel plucks Sarah's arm from her abdomen and swings her feet over the edge of the bed, not caring to check if Sarah has heard or not; not caring if Sarah does indeed _mind_ or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after a revelatory evening on tumblr it turns out people actually care about this story and are enjoying it, WHO KNEW. So yeah um.. leaving feedback.. will definitely... like... speed the process along. Do the thing. Tell me what you think (because I have no idea lol)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight dubcon warning for this chapter. But I mean I wrote it and even I'm not sure if it’s a valid warning? Just take caution I guess. 
> 
> Also this chapter has explicit references to Rachel and Sarah being both intimately involved and clones.... But I guess you wouldn’t have read this far if that wasn’t ok with you.
> 
> Special thanks to cosmickneehighs for beta-ing this extensively <3

Air thick with a mist-like rain, the pavement is wet beneath their feet, Rachel's heels somehow still clicking against the darkened stone and attracting the attention of every passerby. Rachel walks like she's been walking these streets all her life. 

Of course she  _hasn't_ , and neither has Sarah, but nobody here knows that—and people all around steal barely restrained glances at the two. Perfect copies of one another, yet polar opposites; each with a commanding air, in their own separate ways.

Rachel enjoys it immensely but her expression does not betray her. For all intents and purposes, it is the first time they have been out together, side by side, for all the world to see. Rachel feels the adrenaline coursing through her body, feels her desires solidify once more— _become_ _realised_ —in the eyes of these London strangers as they reflect back at her the understanding that these two women are the same.  _It is real._  Their faces tell her it is so.

 

***

 

Sarah comes to a halt outside a pub she had once known and Rachel looks at her in disbelief, the notion of being seen in a place like this not at all an appealing one. She appears to hold her breath as she looks to the sky, eventually conceding with a sharp huff and the slightest twitch of an eyebrow.

They sit at the bar—perhaps unwisely—and it’s not long before they’re approached by a man so forward that he earns a heated glare from Sarah and a particularly frigid one from Rachel. Something about them being identical; about who is older. Rachel isn’t really listening; waits it out only for the fact that she knows the attention is a necessary catalyst. Sarah’s abrasive rudeness paying off for once, he finally leaves the pair alone—but to Rachel’s great annoyance, the bartender has also latched onto the conversation.

“But really, who’s older? Gotta be you, right?” he nods in Rachel’s general direction.

“Mate...“ all her patience having already expired, Sarah stops him in his tracks, the silence instantly restored. Sarah’s cold shoulder is almost as good as Rachel’s.

 

***

 

It's been several moments since they've exchanged words, neither Sarah nor Rachel one to make idle conversation. Sarah is on her third drink and a little tipsy when finally Rachel breaks the silence. She crosses one leg over the other and takes a sip from her glass, not looking at Sarah.

"They think we're twins," Rachel licks her lips slowly and places her drink back down on the counter, taking her time with it all before looking Sarah in the eye, expression unreadable.

Sarah shrugs, "Yeah, and?"

"Does that bother you?"

"What? Why? Why would it  _bother_  me?" Sarah says, all in one breath.

Rachel raises an eyebrow, her silence coaxing Sarah to fill it herself.

"What  _else_  are they s'posed to think?  _Clones?_ Come on, Rachel.”

"Just because it's a reasonable assumption doesn't mean it doesn't bother you. Statistically, it's a reasonable assumption that you're heterosexual but that isn't true, either."

Sarah doesn't miss a beat, "You tryna say I'm gay?"

"Are you trying to say you're not?"

"Yeah! No! I mean not— I don't bloody well know, do I! Fucking hell."

Rachel smirks, amused; turns back to her drink, "Well, it can certainly be said that you aren't my twin," she takes a sip, "or straight."

"Fuck you," Sarah shoves Rachel by the shoulder—something she has never done before, and probably _wouldn't_ have done without alcohol in her system. Notably, Rachel remains cool; knows that she is winning. Anyway, it is better than a gun to the cheek.

"You have," Rachel's voice is even and she looks straight ahead, purposefully omitting the vital part of what she is meaning to express.

"Have what?”

Rachel just stares at her like it's obvious.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Sarah whispers hotly, "Yeah. Yeah! Okay! I  _have_  fucked you, but that don't make me gay!"

"Kiss me."

"Sorry?!"

Rachel just says it again as if Sarah simply hadn’t heard her.

"Not  _here!_  Are you insane?" Sarah makes a face beyond incredulous, almost outraged.

"I see..." 

Rachel moves to put her coat on, and Sarah buys it.

"Hey, woah, where you off to?"

Rachel fixes her with a stoic look and uncrosses her legs to stand, but before she can, Sarah's lips are on hers. It's rushed and Sarah's heart isn't in it—nor is Rachel's for that matter—but it isn't important; isn't the point.

Sarah pulls back a mere two seconds later, immediately putting both hands around her beer bottle and staring at the label, "Happy now?" she asks sarcastically.

"Yes, thank you."

"Praise the lord."

Rachel ignores her comment.

"It bothers you.”

It's a statement, neither amused nor hurt, entirely matter of fact.

Sarah sighs and then groans; drags her eyes off her drink, "What's the matter with you _now?"_

"It does, it bothers you. That the general assumption would follow that we're related, more specifically twins."

Sarah knows she would have to be an idiot to try and deny it after her positively explosive reaction to Rachel's request. Sarah isn't looking at her anymore but Rachel knows she has her full attention.

"We share DNA. We did not, however, grow up together, come from the same family, or even have the same parents. We're not related in any socially significant meaning of the word. And, as two females, there is no possibility of reproduction. You know this, they don't—and it bothers you. It invalidates the way you feel about me and our behaviour towards one another."

Rachel has rarely been known to say so much in one go and, perhaps to compensate for this, she had spoken as if reading from an encyclopaedia. Nevertheless, the whole thing aggravates Sarah, and she spits out her stifled words now, angry at Rachel's insistence on verbalising things that she would rather not think about at all.

"And  _how_  is that? How do I  _'feel'_  about you?"

"The same way I feel about you."

It's a lie. And Rachel feeds it to Sarah deliberately, knowing it to be the only sentiment that will make her feel as though she isn't being attacked; that if she  _is_  guilty, she isn't the _only_ one.

"So it doesn't bother  _you?"_  Sarah's voice is a little calmer now, and somewhat childlike behind her act of annoyance. Rachel can tell that this plays on her mind more than she'd ever willingly admit. But Rachel needs Sarah not to care at _all_. That is why they are here, that is what Rachel's business is in dragging Sarah out of familiar, suppressing, always-watching Toronto.

"No, it doesn't."

"Yeah, right."

Sarah is quiet for a mere moment.

"Okay, fine," Sarah begins, appearing more passionate than she'd like, clearly needing Rachel to lay out a path before her leading away from the sense of shame she's been harbouring, "so if some bloke had come over here after I'd kissed you, what would you have told him?"

Rachel eyes her with classic mock-sympathy, "Does it matter?"

Sarah abruptly twists back to face the counter, retreating from Rachel, "Ah, fuck it, you don't understand, you're so bloody..." she waves a hand aimlessly, "so bloody  _unaware!_  It's like the only person that exists is you, if you want something—then that makes it fine!"

It isn't at all inaccurate, both women just as astute as each other.

Sarah drains the liquid from the bottle in front of her and slides off her bar stool, not looking at Rachel, "Whatever. See you back at the hotel."

"Felix is your brother."

It is a desperate move from Rachel, but Rachel is just that; desperate. Not for Sarah,  _oh no,_  but for what Sarah alone can bring her.

Sarah pauses, impatient, entirely fed up with the whole debacle,  _"What?"_

"Felix is your brother purely by environment, but he is a hundred times more your brother than I am your sister. You share no DNA, but you are family. It works both ways, you understand."

To both their surprise Sarah has welled up in the time that Rachel has been talking, and is now fiercely wiping away the single tear that rolls down her left cheek.

"I just don't know what to _do,_ okay! It's all so  _fucked_ up and so bloody  _complex_  and you just act like it's _none_ of that! Like nothing applies to us, like it makes us _closer,_ makes us  _better!_  And half the time I can't even tell if it's _me_ you want or just anoth—"

Rachel has heard enough.

 _"Compose_  yourself," she interjects sharply, warning Sarah with glittering eyes.

"See! You can't even handle a public argument but you just made me fucking snog you like it was no big deal. Hey!"

Rachel has grabbed Sarah by the arm and is dragging her towards the exit as inconspicuously as possible. They weave through the throngs of people, Sarah struggling weakly against Rachel's surprisingly firm grasp, wanting to make a point but not really wanting to get away.

Out on the street, Rachel lets her go immediately, walking back the way they had come without so much as glancing at Sarah to make sure she is following. She is certain that Sarah would be, were she to look.

She is, and she catches up to Rachel quickly, her rage amplified—if there's one thing Sarah cannot stand it is to be manhandled.

To their left there is a break in the terraced buildings, and Sarah sprints the last few paces until she's just a foot behind Rachel, only to roughly shove her off the main road and onto the poorly lit side-street. Rachel stumbles but she does not gasp or shout; she had been expecting as much, hoping for it even. Sarah wastes no time in stepping directly into Rachel's personal space, forcing her to step back until she is pressed up against the old, brick wall behind her—hard.

Pursing her lips with anger just as much as with the effort of holding back tears—her eyes filling with a kaleidoscope of emotions—Sarah says nothing.

If Rachel were a different sort of woman, she might crumble under the intensity of Sarah's gaze; might pull her to her chest and tell her 'it's going to be alright', that they would 'figure it out'. But Rachel's heart has not been so inclined since she was eight years old, and instead she pushes Sarah back by the shoulders; pushes her until she comes up against the opposing wall, mirroring Rachel's own previous position. And, kicking Sarah's feet apart with one of her own, Rachel shoves a knee between her legs, avidly watching Sarah's face change, her body responding to the pressure even while her mind wills it not to. Satisfied, Rachel reaches down and makes quick work of undoing Sarah's zipper before gracelessly pushing her hand into her underwear.

Sarah closes her eyes and lets out a short breath; whimpers half in resistance and half in arousal; wants Rachel to carry on just as much as Rachel seems to _want_ to, but is loathe to let her get away with it.

Rachel affords her little time to deliberate though, asking harshly, "Does that feel good?" as soon as she begins to sense wetness beneath her fingers.

Sarah just swallows hard and squeezes her eyes shut, tries to focus on keeping her breathing even. Rachel didn't need Sarah to tell her anyway.

"How then do you suppose it can be so  _wrong?_  If you _like_ it so much, if you  _always_  like it so much?" Rachel's tone is scathing, vicious, mouth close to Sarah's ear—and this time when Sarah doesn't answer, Rachel grabs her roughly by the jaw and kisses her deeply, as if to further prove her point.

The addition of Rachel's tongue is too much for Sarah and she hurtles wildly close. Feeling it in the writhing of Sarah's body, Rachel quickly withdraws herself completely, leaving Sarah gasping where she stands, slumped against the wall, eyes snapping instantly to Rachel's in confusion.

"What the bloody hell, Rach?!"

"What the bloody hell indeed," it is the first time Sarah has heard Rachel use the expression and momentarily she is taken aback. Rachel either doesn't swear at all or goes straight for the truly damnable.

_"What?"_

"Quite."

Rachel's voice is low, and it feels like a threat as she sidles back towards Sarah, "You can't expect to get what you want from me before I have gotten what I want from you, Sarah."

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Sarah looks around the alley in disbelief, as if seeking validation from an imaginary audience.

Moving in on her, Rachel snakes a hand around the back of Sarah's neck and pushes up firmly through dark locks, pulling on a fistful of hair and forcing Sarah's chin up; forcing her to meet her gaze. If Rachel were any closer she would be out of focus. Their eyes lock, noses almost brushing, and Rachel's breath is hot on Sarah's lips when she growls,"Be _done_ with it."

Sarah is still bewildered but knows better than to speak this time, opting to play Rachel's game instead. She stares down the woman opposite her until the silence itself becomes prompting enough.

"We kiss in  _private_ and we kiss in  _public_ or you do not kiss me _at all,_  are we clear?"

Another of Rachel's odd phrasings—but Sarah is able to pay it little mind as no sooner is Rachel is finished speaking than she is pressing her body up against Sarah's; sliding her hand under Sarah's t-shirt and yanking her head to one side by the same fist of hair, lowering herself to kiss Sarah's neck, all teeth and tongue.

Rachel pauses in her ministrations,  _"Are we clear?"_

Sarah doesn't respond fast enough for Rachel and she bites down hard on Sarah's shoulder, a sharp contrast to the warmth of her lips behind Sarah's ear just seconds ago.

Sarah clutches at the cool brick behind her, trying to get her balance, before letting out a rough, "Yeah," over Rachel's shoulder and closing her eyes against what she has just submitted to. Rachel answers only in pushing her hand lower from where it has been resting on Sarah's hip and letting Sarah come this time. Heady with success, Rachel doesn't shove Sarah off when she crumbles into her, burying her face in Rachel's neck. Here in the dark it is easier to imagine Sarah with a different haircut.

Cheek still pressed against her counterpart's skin, "I can't smell your Rachel smell anymore," Sarah's voice jolts both women from their respective reveries, and now Rachel does shove Sarah off.

 _"What?"_ Rachel asks impatiently, beginning to walk back out towards the main road.

"You used to smell like, I dunno, like metal... Sorta? And sometimes toffee. But I can't smell you anymore. We must smell the same," Sarah laughs easily now—mood as fluid as ever—and begins walking after Rachel, "Been spendin' too much time around you, Proclone."

Rachel doesn't reply, doesn't even turn to face her, just keeps on walking, the smile that creeps across her lips kept only for herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there was ever a chapter that I would value feedback on it's this one, I mean.. the clonecest is strong with this one. Also Rachel says bloody hell. But SHE SAID IT FOR A REASON OKAY. Okay.


	8. Chapter 8

Pushing Sarah for the first time in an environment that can soon be left behind, Rachel kisses Sarah on the plane back to Toronto. 

She flicks through her mental archive, stopping when she finds the knowledge pertaining to how people who care for one another kiss. Deciding herself to be capable, Rachel turns to Sarah, catching her gaze. Tilts her head a fraction and gives Sarah a look that prepares her for what she is about to do. Sarah blinks at her sombrely, almost a cat-kiss; thinks that she is ready—if only just.

And then, wearing the mask of a woman monumentally more tender than she, Rachel lifts Sarah's chin with a gentle finger, leans into her, slowly closes her eyes, and presses their lips together. _Classic_. 

To a certain extent, Rachel's calm exterior remains unbroken, but her heart races when she allows her imagination to compensate for what she cannot see—when she allows herself to be reminded of how they must look to anyone's eyes that should fall upon them—and when she pulls back, her breath is shaky, the magnitude of the thrill quickly becoming too much to contain. There are several lipstick smudges around Sarah's mouth, and, unbidden, Rachel envisages herself leaving more on Sarah's breasts, Sarah's thighs—right here and now with the entire cabin watching.  _Preferably with them watching._

Instead, Rachel swallows, breathes, glances over the rows of passengers in her desire to absorb every ounce of attention that they might have drawn to themselves. 

Rachel has never smoked, nor been a heavy drinker—and now she knows it's because this is it, this is her drug of choice. It is one thing to kiss a woman with her face, but a whole other thing to do it before an audience. And Rachel's mind runs wild with the understanding that now, the last hurdle overcome, there are a hundred different places she could do this, and a hundred different things she could do there besides give Sarah a sugary kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: "cat-kiss"
> 
> You know when your cat blinks at you really slowly because they trust you/love you, etc? Well humans also do it to each other! (Think about giving someone a sincere look of understanding or love.)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to change the rating to explicit because it simply isn't, but there are a few lines in this chapter that are... more explicit... than before. Also LANGUAGE. 
> 
> Big thanks to valiantprincess for beta-ing this shameful addition to this shameful story, ily lots.

Many people with regular lovers move away from frequent self-indulgence. It becomes a surplus. Having simply been a means to an end, the needs can now be met under more ideal circumstances. But as perhaps one can imagine, for Rachel Duncan this is not the case. No common goal is it that Rachel means to achieve, and she pictures nothing other than the reality of the moment when she touches herself. Her own hands upon her body, that is. 

Besides, the only lover that could ever truly satisfy Rachel is locked in a glass cage; is imprisoned behind every reflective surface, the jolt of the cool barrier against her fingertips whenever Rachel reaches out a cruel reminder of the fact. Behind the impervious wall is a woman Rachel can only gaze at. But like two children on either side of a fence, forbidden to befriend each other but trying nonetheless, Rachel has spent many an hour sitting before her own reflection. 

Rachel has never touched or tasted that woman, but has perfected a map of her every line and freckle; knows exactly where the brown in her eyes ends and where the green begins; where the golden flecks are; could tell you by how many hairs her parting is off-centre; and precisely how many fine creases cover the surface of her lips.

Sometimes Rachel grazes her palm across the glass, others she pummels it with her fists in an indignant outburst, angry tears streaming down her face. But more times than either, Rachel leans against it, all distance removed between the warm tanned skin of her shoulder and the cold hard copy of it, eventually drawing herself away and assuming a more comfortable position. And naturally, tonight is no exception. 

 

***

 

Sarah's favourite way to get drunk is bourbon; forty-three percent, painful to the throat, and available in every corner store that she passes en route to Rachel's building—including this one.

Stepping out of her tattered truck, Sarah walks across the tarmac silently, the rubber of her boots cushioning her footfall. She leans into the door of the grubby shop and moves with it as it swings open, the sound of some eighties hit welcoming her inside. Sarah's been in here three times already this week, the radio always stuck on the same station. 

Moving through the familiar aisles, Sarah stops when she reaches the alcohol section. She pulls the cheapest bottle of whiskey from the shelf and makes her way back to the front of the store. The cashier has been eyeing her brazenly the entire time and now Sarah stares him down as she stands on the opposite side of the counter, the fluorescent lighting doing nothing to hide the aggression in her eyes. 

"Twelve ninety." 

Sarah slaps the bills down on the counter instead of into the cashier's open hand, snatching the bottle up and walking out before he can even open a bag for her. 

 

***

 

Rachel stands back from the mirror, tilting her head to one side and gently bringing a hand to her cheek. The ridged skin of her palm brushes against her lips and she closes her eyes at the sensation, a strange spasm of arousal moving through her lower abdomen.

Since returning to Toronto, she and Sarah have been going out. And, finding Sarah's reluctance to wane with each evening spent at this bar or that restaurant (fancy places; Rachel's choosing—much to Sarah's aggravation), Rachel has been exercising her patience; has been trying not to stretch Sarah too far too quickly. At the moment, Rachel settles for the pair to immerse themselves in a public setting for an hour or two, then call for a car to take them back to Rachel's apartment. But it is an intense experience for Rachel—to have so many pairs of eyes flit over them curiously, hungrily, astonishedly—and they don't always quite make it, often ending up in an empty bathroom or around a dark corner, fumbling with each other's zippers. 

They've arranged to go out tonight and, preferring to skip the indignity, Rachel has taken to making sure she's climaxed once already on the days they have made plans. 

 

***

 

As her own preparatory measure, before each time she is to arrive at Rachel's, Sarah drinks at least a quarter of the bottle of liquor she has invariably bought. It helps to disguise the reality of what they are about to do, helps her not to care so much. And tonight she's only half way across the lot before she's unscrewing the cap and taking her first sip straight from the bottle. It burns her tongue—her oesophagus—and Sarah savours every second of it.

Sarah leans against her truck and takes another swig, tries to focus on the colours of the sky as the sun drops behind factory the buildings on the other of the road. Nevertheless, she can't help but wonder what Dyad makes of it all. What explanation they would offer; how they would account for the clones' attraction. (Not that Rachel has ever told them, of course. Sarah is sure of that. But Sarah is also pretty sure that she doesn't have to; is sure that Martin does all that for her. He knows how often they're in each other's company; about London; has even seen them kiss once—a rare moment of negligence on Rachel's part.)  

Sarah grimaces as she thinks about the ardent chatter that must circulate round the staff rooms and quickly jumps back in the truck, pushing the thought from her mind.

  

***

 

Rachel's clothes have been laid neatly across the end of the bed, a silk robe beside them for when she's done. Its a sort of ritual, and though Rachel can't pinpoint _why_ , a part of the ceremony is that she has always just applied a fresh coat of lipstick; has always just brushed her hair. 

_Like a date._

Rachel smirks, her reflection smiling back at her lopsidedly.

Rachel isn't worried that she's pressed for time; this is plenty enough to make each breath come more desperate than the last, enough that Rachel can already feel herself slick between her thighs. Some people would think about a past encounter, flick through a crude magazine. But not Rachel. Rachel just stares transfixed at her reflection before her; watches herself watching herself; watches as she slides one finger in and then another. 

 

***

 

Troy is almost always on the door at this time, but, realising herself to have miscalculated rather, Sarah finds herself instead nodding to the man that must work the shift before him. 

Despite having walked confidently through the revolving doors, Sarah bypasses the row of lifts entirely. Only to Felix has Sarah admitted it, but she is fearful of riding elevators; prefers to take the stairs where she knows she is in control, where she can stop and start whenever she pleases. And now she twists her way up, around and around, all two-hundred and fifty-six steps until she reaches the top floor. Rachel's floor. 

 

***

 

Of course, there is an immense satisfaction for Rachel in being the cause of her own pleasure; an immense sense of achievement found every time she sees the woman in the mirror respond to her ministrations. Every time she's able to make her back arch, to draw a moan from her lips, to make her eyelids flutter and her body shake in sheer gratification. Sarah is all good and well, and Rachel knows that eventually her experience with her clone will supersede this, but at the moment it is still more. Still higher, Still better. Still makes her come harder. And besides, habits are hard to break, and Rachel has been doing this for years.

 

***

 

Being early, there is no one around to let Sarah in. When Rachel is expecting a guest, part of Martin's job is to play guard dog; to stand outside ready to unlock the door and allow them entry, lest Rachel should have to do it herself. 

Inherently impatient, Sarah tries the handle anyway, already knowing it to be infallibly secure. Thus, it is to her great surprise when the door suddenly gives way under her unnecessarily insistent push, and she stumbles forward.  

Sarah had not expected it to budge an inch.

 

***

 

Rachel draws her body nearer to her phantom counterpart; presses a hand flat against the glass—her arm fully extended and now supporting a good part of her weight—as she dares to bring herself that much closer. And, eyes avid on the reflection of her form, Rachel feels a fresh swell in her belly as she curls her fingers and the woman before her cannot help but let her mouth fall open.

 

***

 

Sarah does not enter straight away, instead first scanning the corridor and then peering through the gap warily. Surely Martin knows he would be let go in an instant were he to leave the door to Ms Duncan's personal residence unlocked. Rachel is an important woman—and a major player in illicit business. To leave the door open like this would be careless; would be _dangerous_. It couldn't possibly be an accident. 

 

***

 

Rachel breathes heavily, an almost animalistic moan riding each exhalation and a thin layer of fog growing across the glass. The front door ajar, the noise catches Sarah's attention. She knows that sound all too well and eventually her curiosity gets the better of her, her feet beginning to carry her into the open-plan apartment. 

 _Who the hell is Rachel fucking?_ It's not like they had ever said they were exclusive, but still Sarah's gut lurches. Perhaps Martin. Perhaps that's why he hadn't had time to lock the door. Rachel can be aggressive when she wants something, can easily make any less strong-willed person drop everything in favour of her. 

Even if Rachel's mind had not been totally encompassed by her impending orgasm, she would not have heard Sarah approaching, both the thickness of Sarah's soles and the plushness of Rachel's carpet working to silence her footsteps—a fatal combination, really. 

It is precisely as Rachel falls over the edge that she moves into Sarah's field of vision. And what a vision it is: to see Rachel before the mirror, one hand pressed against the glass and the other between her legs, head bowed and eyes closed, now savouring the languid aftermath of it all. Rachel draws in a deep breath through her mouth, holding it for a second before expelling it with some force and lifting her head into a more upright position.

Her erotic satisfaction is blatantly apparent on her face, in the quality of her breathing. And Sarah just stares at her, eyes flicking back and forth between the real Rachel and the reflection of her body; every comment of Rachel's, every little oddity, every unexplained look she's ever given Sarah suddenly flooding to the fore of her mind.

And then Rachel opens her eyes.

She doesn't scream in shock, doesn't even gasp, she merely remains frozen to the spot as the erratic sound of her heartbeat fills her ears. She still has her back to Sarah but their eyes lock through the mirror in a most unpleasant anticipation, a sort of quiet before the storm. 

It is moment possessing more than sixty seconds, a moment that seems to pass at it's own free will; that plays over and over again in the space of only one repetition. Like how in the danger of a car crash, some people report seeing the glass smash in slow motion; how in the most demanding moments of one's life, they say that time bends into unknown directions.

The emotions in Sarah's eyes run together—her confusion into a painful understanding, her anger into an acute hurt—and she begins to back away. At first she takes tentative steps, and then—all the pieces of the puzzle falling into place—rushes abruptly back towards the door, her mouth turning downward in disgust. 

In an instant Rachel is behind her, not bothering to clothe herself.

Rachel does not know how to beg, Rachel only knows how to order; to command; to push people into the mould that she would like them to fit. And now she finds herself at a loss for words as she strides after Sarah, managing only a single utterance as she allows herself to grab hold of the woman's wrist in an uncharacteristically desperate display, _"Sarah."_

Rachel's voice is low, and it is as much a strangled sort of plea as it is a warning; seems to say,  _don't do something you'll regret,_ more than it offers,  _I've done something I wish I hadn't._

Feeling Rachel's fingers on her arm, Sarah whips around faster than Rachel could have anticipated, and it causes her to overbalance. Sarah walks directly into her and takes advantage of Rachel's unsteady footing to push her back into the dining table. Rachel throws her hands down on the hard surface to support herself, and Sarah bears down over her, slamming her own hands down onto the table either side of Rachel's body, their fingers almost overlapping. It is not all that different from their usual games, but the atmosphere doesn't match up and Rachel is looking at Sarah with an unnatural mix of threat and fear. 

But before she even has time to calculate her next move, Rachel is dealt a wildcard.

Above her, Sarah's shoulders go slack and she turns her face away from Rachel, eyes closed and face twisting, suddenly in pain. Rachel's sexuality had worked for her in London, but this—this, Rachel knows—is a dealing of the heart, and she brings her fingertips to rest against Sarah's cheek, valiantly trying to bluff her way through it. It is sincere enough, apparently, because two round tears spill from underneath Sarah's eyelashes, fresh and hot against her skin. Rachel props herself up on her elbows, as much as she can where Sarah still has her pinned, and, with a considerable amount if bravery, brushes her lips against Sarah's just the slightest bit. Sarah allows it, let's herself be carried back to all the times they had kissed while she had still been under the impression that Rachel— _in Rachel's own kind of way_ —loved her. Suddenly she gets a hold of herself; remembers the lengths she now knows Rachel will go to to make her believe just that, and she pushes Rachel back down by the chest, climbing off her. 

Thus far, Rachel has forced herself to remain calm, to salvage whatever she can in the smartest way she knows how. But now, something rises up in her chest; something far more _sinister_ sinking in her stomach. This time Rachel's fingers do not brush Sarah's arm, they grip onto it like a railing at the edge of a cliff face. Sarah whips around, coming to a jerked halt before Rachel, jaw tight, eyes stormy, mouth set like she could just about rip Rachel's throat open. But Rachel beats her to it, slapping her hard across the face.

 _How dare she deem herself fit to judge Rachel? How dare she deem herself_ above _Rachel; to somehow possess the scruples that she believes Rachel to lack?_

Sarah raises a slow hand to her cheek and—inexplicably—suddenly finds herself remarkably calm. Finds she does not want to kick the furniture, to claw her own hair out; does not want to push Rachel to the floor and beat on her chest until her ribs give way. All that will return later.

Right now, Sarah just finds herself looking anywhere but at Rachel's eyes. 

Her voice catches in her throat and she sighs with a rawness that would break Rachel were she to reciprocate all that Sarah felt for her, "I thought _I_ was messed up… But _you_ —!" 

Rachel watches her with wild eyes, like she were waiting for a courtroom jury to announce their verdict. Like she hadn't just hit Sarah, but also like she'd very much like to hit her again.

"You fucking _cunt_ , Rachel…" Sarah's tone is laced with resignation as much as it is with hatred, and before Rachel knows it Sarah's pacing back towards the door again.

And, still standing entirely undressed, Rachel is forced to let her go _._

Rachel can feel the adrenaline coursing through her body as her options diminish at an alarming rate. Of course she could grab the blue silk robe and hurtle through the building after Sarah. But while chasing after Sarah in her own apartment had been one thing, to do so in public would be quite another. 

For the first time in as long as she can remember, Rachel runs a hand through her hair anxiously.

(That's a lie. Rachel can remember _precisely_ when she made the conscious effort to eliminate her telling habit: two months after her fifteenth birthday, four months after meeting Marion Bowles, and six-and-a-half months after first coming face to face with her mirror image—only this time one made of flesh and bone.)

Rachel runs her hands through her hair a single, solitary time, pacing only one length of the living area before snapping her arms back to her sides, refusing to take another step. 

Rachel walks _deliberately_ to the bedroom and puts on the robe, measured. Closes her eyes. 

 _Breathe_. 

 _B r e a t h e_.

Through the stoic apartment comes a light, rhythmic knocking at the door. 

Rachel knows in her gut that it isn't Sarah, could _never_ be Sarah. Rachel knows _exactly_ who it is and her belly ignites once again as she flies towards the entrance, her palm connecting with the door-handle almost before her feet have even carried her there. 

"Miss Dun—"

_"YOU! What did you DO!"_

_Martin_. _On time._  (It was Sarah, after all, who had been _early_ ).  _Martin_ , who had left the door unlocked. _Martin_ , who had not guarded Rachel. _Martin,_ who had allowed this to happen, who had cost Rachel it all; who had cost Rachel _everything_. 

_"What have you DONE!”_

Rachel flings herself on him like a wild animal, resembling more _Sarah_ than herself: nails scratching, canines bared, yanking brutally on his tie and almost choking him. And he doesn't fight it, doesn't fight _her_ , just like she knows he won't. Because she is Miss Duncan; his boss; a _clone_ ; subject 324d09; a woman whose physical body is a biological goldmine, and worth more than he could ever earn at Dyad in forty years. 

It is the first time Martin has seen the blonde clone move much more than an  _eyebrow,_ and he begins to wonder what he has _,_  indeed, _done_. But just as quickly as it started, Rachel lets him go entirely, releasing his lapels and pushing him back into the wall of the corridor at the same time. 

She swallows, says dangerously quietly, "You will never see the inside of Dyad again."

Rachel closes the door to her apartment with no unusual force, and dresses quickly.  

She _would_ drive; drive and drive and drive around the city, but Rachel _cannot_ drive (another painful reminder of Aldous, of Dyad), so Rachel does the only other thing she thinks she can bear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMMENTS ARE LOVE COMMENTS ARE LIFE SHARING IS CARING PLS SHARE ALL UR THOUGHTS WITH ME. Please...


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \-- Please read! --
> 
> OKAY SO I JUST WANNA PUT IT OUT THERE THAT I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA ABOUT THIS CHAPTER AND ITS PROBABLY HORRIFICALLY OUT OF CHARACTER BUT I WROTE IT WAY BACK IN NOVEMBER LAST YEAR AND AT THIS POINT IT FEELS INTEGRAL TO THE STORY SO OVERALL I JUST APOLOGISE OK 
> 
> Also slight incesty tones warning?? _Not_ of the clonecest variety...

"Rachel."

"Marion."

Rachel's voice is calm. And then it is not.

Rachel is collected. _And then she is not._

All of a sudden, she is screaming, growling; a disquieting mixture of the two. Taking fierce breaths between utterances, Rachel clutches at her stomach, bending slightly at the waist—as though were she to stand up straight, something would surely snap inside her.

Marion stares at her in shock, had been surprised to find Rachel standing on her doorstep at all. She supposes she ought to comfort the woman who has become something of a friend—(a daughter? an ally?)—to her and she extends a hand to Rachel, who looks like she might throw up her very guts at any given moment.

" _Don't_ … touch me," through her tears Rachel's voice is clearer and harsher than either of them had expected, and the sound seems to draw her from—from _whatever that had been._

Rachel stands taller, runs a hand down the front of her dress and swallows, every ounce of weakness stripped from her tone in an instant, "May I come in?"

 

 ***

 

Rachel sits neatly at one end of Marion's sofa with a cup of tea in her lap, staring in the general direction of the television, utterly unseeing. Marion had excused herself to put her daughter to bed just over twenty minutes ago, but now she returns to the living room, coming up behind Rachel.

She pauses for a moment, unsure, and then, "Perhaps I could show you to the guest room?"

Standing with a lethargy that Marion could not have dreamt of seeing her exhibit, Rachel raises her eyebrows without the usual disdain. She follows the woman—officially her boss—and soon they reach a room that Rachel vaguely recognises: she has spent the night in here once before. But that had been almost fifteen years ago and now the walls are duck-egg blue instead of cream, the furniture entirely replaced.

Marion opens the door for Rachel and steps over the threshold after her. Her eyes flit around the room—checking everything is in order—then find their way back to Rachel's unfaltering gaze, "Let me know if there's anything else you need."

Rachel gives a tight smile and waits for Marion to leave. She doesn't know quite what she'll do once the door shuts behind Marion, but for now she keeps herself together with the thought that she may, at some point during the night, receive a call. Even in the time that she has already been here, Sarah may have been found _._

Rachel feels her stomach churn and her blood begin to boil at the thought; a complex mix of anxiety and blind rage, twinges of other, older pains bubbling to the surface here and there. The weight of the whole thing grows heavy in Rachel's chest and she wonders what she had been thinking coming here in the first place. What could Marion possibly offer her, after all these years? Had Rachel really come here for a room, when she has a perfectly decent bed in her own apartment? Oh, her  _apartment—_ filled with whirlwinds and wild emotions _,_ with violence and with rapture, after being _still_ and being _clean_ for as long as Rachel can remember. Rachel wants to wash it all away with a tired hand, swipe at it until it mixes and blurs and one hurt becomes indistinguishable from another. All the same, she folds her hands in front of her, and waits for Marion to leave.

Only Marion does not leave, instead moving to encircle Rachel in an awkward hug, thinking it only appropriate to give a sympathetic nod to Rachel's aberrational state in some way. It is unexpected—out of character even—and it undoes Rachel in a way that she is wholly unable to predict.

Rachel wishes that she had stiffened at the invasion of her personal space, but instead she melts unwittingly, and when Marion withdraws Rachel just gives her a solemn look before seeking out her lips. It is merely a graze, could not truly be called a kiss, but still it comes as a surprise to both of them.

Rachel pulls back, allowing Marion to consider.

(She does not know it, nor indeed know _why_ , but only for Marion could she ever behave like this. And perhaps that is what she is doing here; perhaps that is what Marion can offer her, _after all these years._ )

Against her better judgement, Marion recaptures her lips and Rachel kisses back with a gentleness it seems hardly possible for her to possess. Like she wants to give just as much as she wants to get; like she wants to please Marion. 

On Marion's part, it seems to be a strange fog that she is caught in, question after question entering her brain only to instantly splinter and disband. There is only one thought that remains solid: _Rachel. Everything that is Rachel. Rachel from Dyad, Rachel from Cambridge; Rachel from heels to hair, from gentle tan to glinting teeth._ Marion wants to consume it all.

Rachel stays perfectly still as Marion moves around her; closes her eyes as Marion carefully unzips her dress, all the way from the base of her neck to the curve of her behind; and Rachel holds her breath as tears begin to trickle from underneath her eyelids silently. Marion pushes the fabric over Rachel's skin and lets the expensive garment pool around her ankles. Rachel now standing in nothing but her stilettos and her underwear, Marion's hands are warm against her back, and as she leans in easily to kiss one of Rachel's shoulder blades, Rachel cannot help the tearful whimper that rises in her throat.

What is perhaps most notable, is that for Rachel there's nothing sexual about it, but rather belonging to a whole other realm of gratification.

Slowly, Marion spins her so that they are facing each other again; coaxes her into another kiss, a proper kiss this time, and Rachel is certain that she tastes like the tears that won't stop coming. Marion bends her neck and presses her lips to Rachel's jaw, bends her knees and lets her mouth travel over Rachel's stomach, Rachel's hip bone. Rachel allows it, knows where Marion means to end up; wants what Marion wants, whether it happens to be her own foremost desire or not.

There's a strong hand on either side of her hips and warm breath between her legs, and Rachel raises a palm to wipe at the tears that track her face, the other resting atop Marion's dark hair. It's soft, and at that Rachel emits an odd, small sound; wonders if Marion hears. But Marion doesn't hear, just tugs Rachel's underwear down her thighs as Rachel steps out of it willingly.

For Marion it is a first—engaging with a woman, that is. For Rachel it is not—being with an _older_ woman. But with Marion alone is it possible for Rachel to fragment like this, to relinquish herself so wholly as to be virtually unrecognisable.

The first time she had met her father after finding him to be still alive, she had cried, had unravelled before someone else's eyes but her own. And now, before Marion, she does the same.

The second time Rachel had seen her father, she had hardened, thickened, retreated back into her icy walls. And Rachel knows that tomorrow morning, this—this _woman_ , she has become, will leave without a word, also.

 

***

 

As it is, Rachel's departure is relatively painless. Marion offers her tea without so much as an odd look and Rachel declines, both women solid in their understanding that yesterday's occurrence will be neither discussed nor repeated. (Rachel has _already_ done a good job of trying to forget her display of vulnerability altogether.)

Marion might have been tempted to use it against Rachel—to make an underhanded comment and watch her squirm in that delicious, stoic way that brings a boxed-in rage to her features—but somehow she doesn't.

 

 ***

 

In her heels, Rachel walks across the gravel mainly on the balls of her feet, an art to which she owes _Marion_ , if she is honest.

_("Put your weight here. No, not— yes, like that. Any more on the back and you'll sink straight through the grass and into the dirt.")_

Having arrived last night with truly no intention of staying, Rachel had ordered Troy to wait outside. His loyalties clearly far exceeding those of Martin, she finds the car still parked on Marion's driveway, Troy inside. His head lolls back on the neck-restraint and he's snoring audibly, even through the glass.

Rachel flexes her jaw and raps on the window with a single knuckle, startling him. His wide eyes find Rachel's pitying ones and it propels him into action, unlocking the Mercedes and jumping out to open the rear door for her. Rachel settles herself into the back, eyes steely, offers no explanation, focusses on the feel of the wrinkles in her dress instead and—  _when was the last time she had worn the same outfit two days running?_

Back behind the wheel again, "Where to, Miss Duncan?"

 

***

  

Rachel taps her pen against paper once, twice, three times; tells herself she is searching for the correct word; crosses one ankle over the other and breathes out through her nose.

 _It is_   _no use._

It has been three whole days, and Rachel has allowed herself to try Sarah's phone merely twice. She will not seem desperate, seem to be lacking the upper hand. But, while fooling Sarah is one thing, Rachel cannot fool herself. Cannot block out the gnawing at the back of her skull, or the way her legs aren't comfortable in any one position for more than five minutes. How her hands search for aimless tasks. And Rachel especially cannot shut out the ticking of her pulse just below her skin. It thumps at her neck—feels heavy and full—yet skitters at her wrists and beneath her breastbone; uneven, light,  _out of control._ Every beat like the second hand of a clock, racking up the moments Sarah has had free from Rachel's grasp. She is probably halfway across Canada by now—or some other irrational expedition—Rachel thinks. She has a tendency to flee when faced with emotional difficulty, and indeed Paul had found Felix's loft empty.

Finally, Rachel rises from her chair and rounds the desk, paces deliberately towards the exit and out past Martin's replacement. There are a dozen lackeys working to locate Sarah—doing the job for Rachel—but things are not moving fast enough—barely moving at all—and Rachel suspects involvement higher up, suspects her personal life is being toyed with for scientific gain. Of course it has always been that way, but now Rachel is closer to thirty than thirteen, and— and the truth is Rachel hasn't felt this restless since she  _was_ thirteen. 

Marion had been a stop-gap, a comfort, a moment's weakness and a distraction, but this—this is unbearable.

 

***

 

Aldous's office is less than neat. Documents spilling out of files, half-drunk cups of coffee holding research papers in place, and, of course, his many hanging gardens. He doesn't look up when he hears the door hiss open and the click of stilettos on the hard floor. Marion is rarely in at this hour, and Rachel remains the only other person at Dyad bold enough to enter unannounced. 

Still focussed on his work, he addresses her absently, "Paul likes pottery...  _Pottery_. Did you know that?"

Rachel just sets her jaw and casts her eyes up. In her silence, Aldous finally meets her gaze, searching her face for a question and raising an eyebrow when he does not find one.

Carefully, Rachel selects her words, "As I am sure you are aware, subject 324a60 has fallen off the radar. Again."

"Really? How interesting. I thought Sarah would be  _your_ area of expertise?" His tone is somewhat snide, and he looks back to his papers.

Rachel blinks several times, shakes her head imperceptibly, "She must be _found_ , Aldous."

"Manning is dispensable as far as the experiment is concerned—we have Helena. The twins are identical in their fertility, Rachel. You know this."

What Rachel _knows_ is that a handful of Dyad's scientists are aware of her and Sarah's relations. Idle gossip, mostly; there is no real proof. But Aldous doesn't need it. As much as Rachel's emotional life is impenetrable to those around her, he is the one that watched her erect those walls, saw them when there were still cracks in the mortar, has been afforded certain understandings about what makes Rachel _Rachel_.

She stares him down defensively, a flash of very real threat in her gaze, before walking towards the window, identical to those that panel her own office. Great gusts whip spatterings of rain against it, and Rachel hopes that the bad weather will drive Sarah off the streets, into a bar somewhere or a fast-food joint, anywhere that she might be found by one of Rachel's people.  

"If you know something," Rachel says warningly, "it would be in your best interest to share it with me." Turning her back to the glass again, Rachel crosses her wrists in front of her body, digits laced. 

Aldous sighs and leans back in his chair, visibly dropping his pretences. Rachel may be like a daughter to him but technically he is outranked by her position, and he cannot be certain that she feels even the smallest amount of loyalty to him. He rubs one hand across his thinning hair, exasperated, before finally, "I can only tell you things that you already know."

_Empty apartment, no travel alerts, Felix Dawkins' location also unknown._

"Contrary to what you may think, Rachel, you are fully clued-in here. We haven't kept information from you since you were a teenager."

Rachel bites back immediately, "Is that so?"

It isn't a question, she doesn't even really mean it, doesn't care right now. It just feels good to dig her heels in, to bring back to the surface any guilt Aldous might have had for taking her life into his hands.

And it works. Aldous gives her a look as if to say, _You don't really mean that._  And Rachel looks right back, looks right back like, _Yes. Yes, I do._

Unfortunately, despite her intense frustration, Rachel finds that she believes him. At least if he were tampering with what information was reaching her she would have a purpose; could work away at him tirelessly until he broke like the weak-willed man he is. (Anything for one of his clones, anything for _Rachel_ , really.) But she believes him. He knows no more than she. And Rachel exits his office with a deep breath and not another word.

The halls are completely empty, and she does not stop when Martin 2.0 comes into her field of vision, just carries on past without so much as a glance in his direction, the words coming easily, "Keep looking."

"Y-Yes, Miss Duncan."

 _New_. So new and twitchy. Rachel doesn't care for it. And when she doesn't immediately hear him fall into action she turns on her heel, unable to contain what had—until now—been bubbling away under the surface.

"Are you _waiting_ for something?" she asks rhetorically, venom saturating her tone, " _Find_ her!"

Martin 2.0 ( _Simon_ , his name is _Simon_ ) looks like he's going to be sick. That, or make a run for it. But Rachel just smiles one of her smiles; sweeps the shattered pieces up and fixes the facade back into place in a fraction of a second. 

 _("Practise makes perfect.")_  

"Find her," she repeats, thoroughly composed this time.

No sooner have the words slipped through her lips than Rachel hears her phone buzz from inside her office, vibrating loudly against the desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT CHAPTER IS ALL PROPUNK I SWEAR 
> 
> Ok so like the idea behind this chapter is that losing Sarah/a-lover-with-her-own-face is kind of huge for Rachel and I needed a way to express all the kinds of crazy that it's made her. So yeah. Forgive me for it and understand that I wrote it so long ago that I didn't really understand Marion as a character at the time? Like I wrote it before I even shipped them? ?? 
> 
> ANYWAY, AS ALWAYS, if you enjoyed please leave a comment or kudos! It would make my day <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about time Sarah snagged the upper hand, don't you think?
> 
> (Standard Propunk Warnings applicable! And possibly ableist language?)
> 
> Also pls don’t ask how Sarah was found bc idk ok she just appeared lmao

"I loved you! You _made_ me fall in love with you!"

It is not a proclamation so much as it is an accusation, and Sarah leans forward as she spits the words out, hurls them across the room at Rachel with an anguish she has not seen Sarah wear before.

(Dogged as Rachel is, she had come to the loft herself this time, only to be greeted by Felix with a tangible hostility.

"Sarah, it's your girlfriend!" he'd shouted over his shoulder, eyes firmly locked on Rachel's. Then, "Wait. _My_  bad.  _Sister_... Sarah it’s your sister."

_How much does this imbecile know?_

Appearing from the bedroom, Sarah had quickly pushed Felix's coat to his chest and walked him out the door.)

Now, Sarah paces back and forth between the kitchen and the couch, running a hand through her hair, fisting it and letting it go again anxiously. And, more to herself than Rachel this time, "I _fucking_ loved you. God, I'm such a _bloody_ idiot!"

Rachel had prepared herself to say it back; had decided it isn't a lie if she holds in her mind whom she really loves when she says she loves Sarah Manning. She loves that face, that body, those hazel eyes, those sharp canines; Rachel loves those things about herself. (Not that lying would exactly have been an _issue_ , of course.)

Rachel braces herself—and it is a bracing—before, "I love you _too_ , Sarah."

Truthfully, Rachel doesn't know the meaning of the word. And, perhaps consistent with that, she adds in a tone that more orders than it begs, "Please believe me." Her stomach churns, and distantly, she thinks she might throw up. She sounds so… so _needy_. 

It feels too soon, too good to be true, but something flickers behind Sarah's eyes and suddenly she's marching towards Rachel, crashing into her and pulling Rachel by the neck to meet her lips. Rachel pushes back on her heels, steadying herself, and slides a finger through either of the belt loops at Sarah’s hips, tugging her so that their torsos come flush together. 

Despite having just declared her love for Rachel, there is nothing loving about Sarah. She paws her carnally, hands moving restlessly over Rachel's body as she arches into her. Waist, thighs, breasts, back—a tactical sensory overload. Sarah reaches around with two hands and squeezes before blindly sliding the zipper on Rachel's skirt, letting the tailored piece fall from her hips. And when Sarah pulls back to unbutton her shirt, Rachel just watches with keen eyes and an open mouth. Lets her do what she likes. Clearly Sarah wants to switch their roles. Needs to even. Is perhaps trying to change the feeling that everything she's ever done with Rachel has simply been a submission, a bending to her will. 

Uncomfortable, but seeing the necessity in it, Rachel does not protest.

The couch is closest and Sarah pushes her into it, the backs of Rachel’s knees connecting with the edge and abruptly giving way. Sarah presses a hand to her chest and forces her to sit, to lie, to let Sarah climb on top of her with an unprecedented carelessness and throw her legs apart.

In London, in their hotel room, filled with giddiness and more than a little alcohol, Sarah had played at this, and Rachel had played back, had given Sarah a moment to _taste_ , and had then shut her down before she could _develop_ one for it. But this—this is unlike anything that has gone before. It's fierce and it's genuine, and Rachel isn't sure that if she were to fight back she would win.

And somehow, suddenly Rachel has everything she ever wanted.

Sarah has her hand tangled tightly in the back of Rachel's hair and a knee on either side of her waist, shins resting painfully across the inside of Rachel's thighs, and... she is so much like _Rachel_. Sarah's eyes are both brimming with emotion and utterly dead above her, and Rachel thinks,  _Perfect_. Thinks, _Finally_.

Pulling her lips from Rachel's mouth, Sarah drags them across her jaw, hot and wet; pushes her fingers further into Rachel and lets them curl; sinks her teeth into Rachel's collarbone and sucks, angry tears mixing with saliva. And just like that, Rachel comes. Too hard, too loud, too fast. Thinks,  _'You made me fall in love with you.'_

And maybe Sarah has, _Finally_.

Sarah slides off her, wiping her fingers on her jeans, and looks back down at Rachel, eyes a little wet, and Rachel thinks that at last they understand each other. She pushes herself up into a sitting position, and her eyes as honest as Sarah has ever seen them. _Open_ , and looking to exchange, rather than just _take_. Like maybe she wants Sarah to come back and kiss her, come back and fuck her again and let her savour it this time.

But Sarah can't forget; she knows what she saw three days ago and she knows what she's seen now. Knows that Rachel's love forms not a direct path to Sarah's heart, but a loop, feeding right back into her own body, her own _heart_.

Sarah has to avert her gaze from Rachel—Rachel with her lipstick smudged and her shirt off, with her hair all messed up and cheeks red from adrenaline. Instead, she stares into the middle distance, bitter—like she needs to cry. But also like she needs to smash Rachel's pretty little face in. ( _Pretty_. Finally  _pretty_.)

She turns away.

Reaching for a half-drunk bottle of bourbon, Sarah takes a second to lean against the counter; tries to muster enough strength to go back and _sit_. If she is really going to do this, then she needs it to be good. She deserves that. And after all of this, so does Rachel.

 

***  
 

For the last five minutes, Sarah has been filling and refilling her glass with bourbon, knocking back each measure as though the spirit were water. Rachel had briefly considered pouring a glass of her own, but she doesn't want to be impaired; doesn't like to drink in Sarah's company. Or anyone's for that matter. Finds absolute control to be far more intoxicating.

For now, Rachel is content to simply sit here; to know that things are on the uphill. Just maybe, Sarah will even—

"Get out," Sarah's tone is calm and she does not look at Rachel. Just continues staring at the ceiling from where her head rests against the couch.  

Rachel feels an odd sensation in her chest, a sort of hollow _pang_ , before a rawer and more pervasive pain starts to take hold. A sort of sinking, a sort of _receding of satisfaction_. A returning to one's old, unwelcome state—a feeling filled with far more panic and grief than sounds due. However, Rachel refuses to let neither panic nor grief permeate her tone, says only, "Excuse me?"

Sarah doesn't miss a beat, "I was horny. Wanted to stick my tongue down someone's throat. Thanks. Now get out."

Since before Rachel can remember, surprises have been a regular part of her life: losses, violations, sudden pieces of new information that change the game immeasurably. And thus, her game- _face_ is a perfected one, her eyes inscrutable as she takes a long moment to study Sarah.

" _Go_. I don't want to see you again." Sarah lifts her head and turns to face Rachel with the coldness and anger of their combat days; a total lovelessness and a barely restrained fury. Like Rachel is an inconvenient piece of trash, deliberately trying to trip her up.

It is not in Rachel's nature to relinquish a pursuit after such a short period of obstinacy, but it takes just one candid look from Sarah and Rachel knows there is no room left to budge, nothing left to work with. Sarah doesn't change her mind once she's made it up, Rachel has known that since the first moment Sarah had stormed into her office. And she should have known _better_ when Sarah had flung herself at Rachel only to immediately reject her. It had been a final _fuck-you_ , to borrow a phrase from Sarah. Rachel sees that now.

Naturally, however, Rachel pretends—quite absurdly—that it is a surrender of her own choosing.

To Sarah's irritation—but not really to her surprise—Rachel just smiles at her oddly, tightly, almost _pleasantly,_ and gets up from the sofa, so measured that she is incapable of being read.

Moving around the living area with a forced ease, Rachel collects her discarded items one by one, stepping into this and pulling that over her head until she stands before Sarah fully clothed. "I have a meeting with the Koreas. Both of them,"—there's that odd smile again—"Now, if you'll excuse me."

Sarah rolls her eyes and pushes a mocking laugh out through her nose, averting her gaze from Rachel in sheer exasperation, "Yeah, _see ya_ ," Sarah says derisively.

The only piece of satisfaction she's granted is the sight of Rachel removing the yellow screwdriver from the bolt and hauling the steel door open, so wildly out of place that she has to stifle laughter. But as soon as she is safely on the other side, tears begin to well in Sarah's eyes. She grabs her empty glass from table and hurls it at the door, watching it smash before falling to the floor in shards.   

 

***

 

In all honesty, Rachel isn't quite sure what she had expected, and, already having had the idea of losing Sarah forced upon her once, is more numb than anything. Her stomach isn't flipping over, bile isn't rising in her throat, her heartbeat raised only from exertion.

She looks up and down the street with glazed eyes, searching through her bag by touch. Her fingers brush over her personal phone and fleetingly she thinks about calling Sarah and demanding that she let her back in.

But only fleetingly.

Instead, Rachel pulls out her business cell and calls for Troy to pick her up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But Kerry, you say, why must there be sex in every chapter? ((We just don't know.))
> 
> Also a heads up, this is the second to last chapter!
> 
> And I know every writer ever in the history of fanfiction has said this, but comments really do mean everything - like, even the smallest, most seemingly-insignificant ones are enough to put a smile on most authors' faces. If you read and enjoyed, it would really mean the world to hear your thoughts :) <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you are reading the right story. (And me telling you that will also make sense in a second.)
> 
> Warning for an incident of non-graphic - but pretty serious - violence. (Non-sexual.)
> 
> Also, remember in ch. 7 when Sarah tells Rachel that her personal smell is mostly of metal but also of toffee LMAO WELL JUST KEEP THAT IN MIND
> 
> Also I’d just like to remind everybody that Rachel is - canonically - a total TOTAL weirdo... so, you know

The car park Sarah finds herself in is neither full nor empty, an indeterminate number of cars simply creating the _image_ of a car park, no doubt. She is acutely aware of being alone; alone in the parking lot, alone in the whole world it feels, like this parking lot is the whole world, and she the last person living in it.

Other than the noise of Sarah's leather jacket when she moves, it is oppressively silent. There are conifers between the rows but they do not rustle, there is gravel beneath her feet but it does not protest her weight.

At the edge of the car park, sitting in dappled shade, Sarah can just about make out the shape of a black Mercedes. Well, it is in fact _the_ black Mercedes, and why, having seen it so many times, Sarah cannot recognise it instantly, I do not know. Stupid, perhaps.

In a few short strides she is beside it, the driver's side door is open, and she is able to examine if it is, indeed, mine. (Equally, why Sarah cannot merely look at the registration plate, I cannot comprehend. It simply does not occur to her; is not a thing of this universe, apparently.)

With the door now open, she moves to sit sideways in the driver's seat, and begins to inspect the lipstick stain on a paper cup that has been left inside the vehicle. We are glad that she has finally found it.

Sarah does not get far though. Just as she begins to lift the plastic lid, she hears a click. From a gun. My gun. She looks up at me and the second after the second recognition is apparent in her eyes, is the second I shoot her through the forehead.

The lot is silent again, still and uninhabited.

"You know I find no pleasure in taking life, but it had to be done," I reason with Rachel, who stands next to me as I look down on Sarah's lifeless body.

 _A sigh._ Her blood is soiling my upholstery.

 _Yes you do,_ _Rachel,_ Rachel thinks, and we both laugh, only for a pensive moment to quickly sweep in and take its place. I look to Rachel with openness and she projects my understanding back at me. Finally, it is true: _Sarah cannot come between us anymore._

I can see my reflection in Rachel's eyes, and she hers in mine, and we are like mirrors, placed perfectly parallel. Infinitely reflecting into one another, infinitely giving back to one another; infinitely making up the image of the other's face just as much as we infinitely make up the image of our own.

In this parking lot of parking lots, the universe refuses to admit opposites. Cannot distinguish one thing from another, it would seem. And, despite knowing that she is going to, it comes as a surprise when Rachel kisses me, her hands urgent in my hair, pulling me closer, pulling me _into_ her. She smells like metal and I like toffee. I begin to move blood red lips against hers and she is heavenly as we coalesce.

One tongue, one mirror, one metal-toffee.

We are positively divine.

_I am positively divine._

 

   
***

 

   
There is wetness between Rachel's thighs and a fist of purple satin in her hand as she clutches the bedspread fiercely, as if in the throes of a nightmare. Except not a nightmare at all—quite the opposite.

Instead, Rachel wakes to a nightmare most profound, groaning with displeasure as she is ripped from the only amount of wholeness she has ever known, reality cascading back down around her.

She sits up quickly, pressing the pads of her fingers to her lips and closing her eyes in anguish, "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

She says the word over and over and _over_. Then she tries it in German, in Mandarin, in a Canadian accent. But still it doesn't feel stupid; it feels like death. Death without death. Death like _dying_ but not death like _dead_. More like purgatory. And distantly, Rachel thinks perhaps this is the price she is to pay for her outright rejection of all morality.

It had been a dream, but a dream so vivid—so _fleshed out_ —that Rachel's brain had permitted her to accept it as the truth. And having been granted that which she longs for most, only for it to be snatched away again so brutally, Rachel wakes in more pain than she had fallen asleep with.

Were it just yesterday, Rachel would have called Sarah, she would have come to the apartment, and they could have fucked. But, she remembers, like pushing a thumb down hard on a fresh bruise, Sarah had been snatched from her in a mere instant also.

Rachel tries again. "Stupid, stupid, _stupid,"_ she repeats, punctuating each word with a small slap to the side of her face.

It doesn't work. Nothing is ever going to work, and she is never going to be purged, never going to leave purgatory and reach heaven. How could she have been such an _idiot_. Two angry tears spill from underneath Rachel's tightly shut eyelids and she chastises herself for ever having cared at all.

She lets the indignant yearning for deliverance take hold of her for merely a moment. She knows that she is always going to need this, to want it, to lust after it and chase it until it destroys her very being. _She knows that she is her own white whale._

But there is a strange freedom in understanding yourself to have no freedom at all, Rachel realises, opening her eyes and wiping a tear from her cheek before licking it from her finger. _(God, how the taste of pain is so much like the taste of pleasure.)_

And, then, either in sheer clarity or pure insanity, Rachel climbs from the bed, walks swiftly to her desk, and pulls out her personal copy of the Dyad file entitled: _Cosima Niehaus, 324b21._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos!! Any thoughts you have are like, so much more than welcome. You have no idea. Even if you end up reading this like a year after it was completed... I WANT TO KNOW. (Seriously <3)
> 
> Brief explanation of the title. It’s kinda misleading tbh, and I’m sure everyone assumes it’s just a variation on the word ‘fantasy’, but my intentions with it are actually much _more_ based around the word ‘phantasmagoria’ ("a sequence of real or imaginary images like those seen in dreams or fever"). This story is a collection of Rachel's fantasies strung into a surreal (for her, probably) sequence of weird and outrageous events. It is a _phantasmagorical_ coming together of fantasies… only they see the light of day. Because Rachel is a special bitch and I love her to death and want her to have everything she wants lmao
> 
> That said, I wanted to give Sarah a fair ending as well, since she gets treated like shit in this story. I know it's not the choice shippers would maybe want, but really there is nothing left for Sarah with Rachel. Although there is plenty left for _Rachel_ with _Sarah_ , and I think it's a fitting punishment that she doesn't get to have any of that due to the way she used Sarah.
> 
> And as for Cosima... well she’s fucked haha
> 
> If you wanna talk about anything in this story more (I'm totally willing to haha), come chat with me on tumblr (updatepls.tumblr.com), or leave a comment and we can chat! Thank you so so much for reading!! <3


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